


A Heartache Shared

by thesecretdetectivecollection



Series: Europa League series [2]
Category: Football RPF
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-01
Updated: 2016-12-01
Packaged: 2018-09-03 14:33:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,252
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8717626
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesecretdetectivecollection/pseuds/thesecretdetectivecollection
Summary: Jordan's done his utmost to make sure his lads are all doing as well as they can after the Europa League loss. He just wants to go home and sleep. The only problem is, someone's remembered that Jordan needs to be taken care of, too.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a two-part follow up to Until the Drought is Over.

_The Next Day:_

Jordan was just enjoying his break, short as it would be. He’d spent the morning been binge-watching Suits from the couch and playing with blocks and dolls with his little girls, the only ones who could make him feel like there was nothing else in the world, who could make him forget football for awhile.

 

So he was somewhat surprised when the doorbell rang. He wasn’t expecting anyone, surely he would’ve remembered…

Still, he rose and answered the door, you know, after briefly toying with the idea of pretending not to be home.

 

“Lucas! Hullo, mate. I didn’t know you were coming over.” Jordan stepped aside to let Lucas come in.

“I did text you to let you know.” said Lucas uncertainly.

Jordan took his phone out of his pocket, pushed a button, and sure enough, it was dead. Perhaps he’d been taking the break too seriously if he wasn’t even bothering to charge his phone….

He showed Lucas his useless phone, shrugging sheepishly.

“Come in, mate, sit down. Cuppa tea?”

Lucas nodded gratefully, though tea was one of the few things about England that he hadn’t wholeheartedly embraced over the course of his time there.

They went to the kitchen, and Lucas leaned against the counter as Jordan puttered about, taking out two mugs.

“Earl Grey’s fine? Or ‘ve got classic breakfast blend.”

“D’you have any of that fruity stuff you had last time?”

“Yeah, it’s Becks’ favorite.”

“Can I have some? Will she mind?”

“’Course not, she loves you! Has done ever since…”

“I sent her _that_ picture? The one with you and Ads?”

“Shut up, you mug. You’re a guest in my house, you know,” Hendo said fondly.

When they were both settled in the living room with a cup of tea in hand, apple for Lucas and classic Earl Grey for Hendo, Jordan looked at him expectantly.

“So what brings you round, mate?”

“I was worried about you, Jordan.”

“What? Why?”

“Hmm, I don’t know. Maybe because we just lost the most important match of the season, and you didn’t get to play, and you’ve had these fucking injuries driving you half mad—“ He choked on the word, an earnest empathy in his voice, and Jordan remembered those two years or so when Lucas had had those awful knee injuries. He’d stopped smiling, and their Brazilian sunshine had hidden behind an anxious cloud.

Lucas continued speaking.

“—and you were upset and heartbroken after Basel too, but you had to take care of all of us, because that’s what captains do!” He stopped and took a breath.

“And I’ve seen captains take that burden on alone, Jordan. And I don’t want you to have to do that.” A long silence fell as they both got lost in their thoughts.

They both knew who Lucas was talking about—Stevie, those years after Carra had retired, when he’d seemed to get more distant, older and sadder. There would be moments when he would be talking and laughing to the lads as normal, and he’d look over his shoulder and open his mouth. And then he’d realize that whoever he wanted to talk to wasn’t there anymore, and his eyes would shutter, and he’d come back to the conversation, and his laughter would be different, hollow, and after a few minutes he’d make his excuses, feeble as they were, and leave.

The younger boys hadn’t noticed, hadn’t known Stevie well enough or long enough to know that he hadn’t always been that way. But Lucas and Martin would see and exchange long, loaded looks. Jordan hadn’t caught on right away, either. But he had noticed those looks, and traced them back to their source, and suddenly he’d seen with startling new clarity, seen his captain aging and weary. Jordan had wanted to go back then, to go back to being a kid with Steven Gerrard on his wall, or the boy he’d been when he’d first signed for Liverpool, meeting his hero with stars in his eyes. Anything but this Stevie, unbearably human, fragile and flawed and struggling far too long with a burden far too large, even for those strong shoulders.

He thought about himself in five years, wondered if he’d be that Stevie. He couldn’t imagine it though, not when he saw Lucas and Adam and Milly beside him, leading the dressing room together, regardless of who wore the armband. He hoped, _prayed_ for a moment, that they wouldn’t leave him, because he sure as hell wasn’t going to leave Liverpool until and unless they shoved him out the door.

The silence ended when Lucas cleared his throat.

“So, how are you, Jordan?” he asked softly, in that comfortingly familiar cadence.

“Fine,” Jordan said, shrugging.

“No, you’re not,” and Lucas’ voice was gentle.

Jordan’s face fell.

“No, I’m not.”

There was a breath of silence.

“We were so _close_ , Luke.” It was almost a whisper.

Lucas set down his teacup and moved so he was sitting right next to Hendo, putting an arm round him.

“I know,” he said, just as quiet.

“I just _wanted_ it, you know? For the boys, for the fans, for Stevie…” And his voice was reverent when it spoke about their former captain, and it was the kind of reverence that was earned. It had matured from the hero-worship he’d started with to a deep mutual respect. It was a reverence that came from knowing Steven Gerrard, an admiration that came from acknowledging what he had done, for Jordan personally and for the team as a whole over the years.

“It’s okay to want it for yourself too, you know.” And Lucas was still being gentle, like he was talking to Pedro or little Valentina. “I did,” he added.

“Me too,” admitted Hendo, “so much.”

All the memories of the season flooded his mind, the many highs blocked out by the terrible lows. The injuries, the way they made him feel incompetent and useless, watching matches from the sideline, and then these two glorious miracles, these golden opportunities, _cup finals_. They were there. There was no dishonor in losing to City in pens—when it got to pens it could go either way, and someone had to win, after all. Besides, it felt far away now. But the chance at a European championship, the chance to be European champions again, to silence the doubters who said Liverpool had a storied history, but no future…

Jordan was horrified to feel tears coming to his eyes. His wretched body was letting him down _again_.

But Lucas just tightened his hold around Jordan’s shoulders, pulling him in until he was just crying into Lucas’ chest like a child. And maybe he deserved this, after being captain, somehow _more—_ bigger, stronger, tougher, smarter than mere man, all season. Maybe he deserved to be a man again. Maybe he deserved to have someone hold him while he cried, for once, rather than having to protect everyone else.

Lucas was humming something, some Brazilian lullaby perhaps. It was lovely, soothing and sweet. Jordan calmed down until he could breathe again. He pulled away from Lucas, who didn’t resist, and rubbed at his eyes, sniffling, the very picture of misery.

“There we go,” Lucas said cheerily, “nothing like a nice cry to bring you round after a tough loss.”

“Have you had one, then?”

“No, I’m a massive hypocrite,” Lucas said, deadpan.

“But afterwards, you were taking care of the boys too! You were helping Phil and Dejan and Bobby…”

“Well, of course. I had to, didn’t I? Couldn’t leave you in the trenches alone, after all. Wouldn’t be the thing for a good teammate to do.”

“And now you’re here, and I’m crying like a baby—the lads never find out about this, by the way—“

“Of course not!”

“—and you’re taking care of _me_! When did you get to process? And what do you mean you _had_ to? You have the same right as any of the boys, to mourn our loss.”

“I, uh, promised Stevie. He trusts you, you know he does, but it’s a lot for one man, you know? And yeah, James and Ads have your back, I know that,” Lucas shifted, demonstrating a rare sign of discomfort, “but when Stevie left, I was the one who was there. I knew Liverpool better, had loved it longer than them. And I guess he trusted me too, to look after you and the boys.”

And there it was, tucked away in the nuance of the sentence. Stevie had asked Lucas to look after him. His heart swelled with love, both for his former captain and for Lucas.

“And who’s gonna look after you, you daft idiot?”

“I can look after myself, mate.”

“So you really _are_ a massive hypocrite?”

Lucas chuckled briefly.

“I guess it just hasn’t really settled in yet,” he said finally.

“And when it does?” Hendo pressed.

“When it does, I will call you straightaway, cap’n, and you can fly to my side like Superman and hold me in your big strong arms while I cry like a small child.” Lucas said jokingly.

“Good,” Hendo said decisively.

The emotion of the moment drained away, until they were back to being two friends hanging out on a Friday afternoon. They had a nice chat, ate the sort of biscuits they couldn’t eat during the season (Hendo sent a mental apology to Milly, who was always trying to get him to eat healthier food). They watched a bit of telly, and eventually Lucas got up and went home. Jordan walked him to the door, wrapping him in a quick, tight squeeze before he left. He turned back and waved fondly.

Jordan took the opportunity—“Call if you need anything!” Lucas smiled and nodded, before getting in his car and driving away.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Lucas calls Hendo while he's on international duty.

A few days later, Jordan gets the call. He’s in between training sessions for England, hanging out in with Ads in his room with Milly, and Harty (who hasn’t left Milly’s side since he joined up… _talk about **clingy** , _Jordan thinks to himself _._ )

“Hendo?”

“Lucas, mate. What’s going on?”

Lucas swallowed.

“I, uh, I think it just hit me, how big a chance that was, and we just _blew it_ , you know? If I was playing better, maybe I would have been on the pitch, and you never know, sometimes one player makes a difference…”

Jordan looked up at Milly, Ads, and Harty, and stood up, leaving the room and walking about in the corridor.

“Don’t you dare do that. You know that’ll do your head in.” Lucas laughed, and it was a soft, wet thing.

“You sound more Scouse every day,” he said, with pride in his voice.

“I can’t stop thinking about it,” he continued mournfully.

“Right, here’s what you’re gonna do, right? You have a nice little mope. Take fifteen minutes. Be depressing. Cry or think or whine or whatever you wanna do, okay? I’m going to call you when your fifteen minutes is up, and then you’re going to stop thinking about it, and you’re going to take Pedro out for a kickabout, alright?”

Lucas nodded glumly, before remembering belatedly that this was a phone call, and murmuring his assent.

“Right, mate. Your time starts now,” Jordan said, and waited for the line to drop. It didn’t. Instead Lucas just… talked. He said everything that was on his mind, every fear about being shipped out over the summer, about being too old and too slow for Kloppo’s signature heavy metal football, about having to leave Liverpool and go somewhere else.

“Even Brazil is different, Jordan. It’s not home anymore. It’s a place I grew up, and made a lot of nice memories, but it’s not home. It’s a place to visit.

“I’m too old now to go abroad, try to learn some other language. Can you imagine me speaking French? Or, God forbid, Chinese? Took me long enough to learn English, Jordan.”

“Oh, God, I’m fucked. I’m fucked. I’m sosososo fucked.” And as his words came faster and faster, his breath did too, until he was nearly hyperventilating.

“Okay, slow down Lucas. Breathe with me. Come on, lad, come on. In.” Jordan took a noisy breath in and wished he was wherever Lucas was, wished he could _see_ him, touch him, hug him. “Out,” he said breathily before pushing the air out of his nose.

“In. Out. In. Out.”

Lucas breathed with him, and it was a strange intimacy, breathing with someone like this, but Lucas was calming down and that was the important thing.

“Jordan?”

“Hmm?”

“I think I’m okay now. Thank you.”

“Thanks for calling, mate. I,” Jordan hesitated and looked down, searching for the words, “I like helping you. I like knowing that you trust me enough to call if you need to.”

“I do, and I’ll call again if I need you, okay? Good luck during the Euros, Hendo. Tell the boys I said hello and give them my love. You’ll all be brilliant, and I’ll be rooting for you.”

Jordan waited for Lucas to hang up first and then went back to the room, where he was instantly interrogated by his mates.

“What did Lucas want?” Adam asked curiously.

“Nothing much, just continuing a chat we had before we got here, is all. Sent you boys his love, though heaven knows you lot don’t deserve it.”

Ads pouted, while Milly gave him a gentle shove.

_They’d be okay. Each and every one of them._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's it. This is probably the last I'll write about the Europa League final.


End file.
